The Morning After
by Cressers
Summary: Stalia drabble set after 4x07. Stiles wakes up the morning after.
1. Chapter 1

**Stiles POV**

Stiles sighed contentedly as he rolled over in bed to wrap his arms around the sleepily warm body curled around him. He always loved waking early, to find Malia sleeping peacefully beside him, loved the way the early morning sunshine streamed through the open window to ignite her golden brown curls and soften the smooth skin of her cheek. The window was always left open after she had crawled through it in the early hours, despite her constant complaints of being chilly. He suspected that this was what she missed most about the woods - sleeping out in the open coolness of the night, no ceilings or restricting bed sheets, only the gaping cavern of a star pricked sky.  
However, this morning his hand only met the cold starchy fabric of his duvet cover, and cracking his eyes open groggily he realised the window was still firmly latched, the room stuffy and overheated. With a pang that echoed somewhere deep inside his chest he remembered the events of the previous night, the pure betrayal and hurt in her eyes, the desperate grasp of her hand on his arm to stop him even touching her. He had read somewhere that after an emotional trauma your heartstrings could snap, and that's what it had felt like, as if someone had reached into him and ripped his pathetic excuse of an organ apart. He hadn't even been able to yell after her, knowing that nothing could repair the damage he had inflicted, yet he still yearned for a chance to explain himself, to make her understand that it was all to protect her. She may be a were-coyote, strong, fast and bloody stubborn, but her fierce, compulsive nature ended her in as many dangerous positions as it did save her. Peter would use this to manipulate her, he would twist and twist her til she was at breaking point, and all the while she wouldn't even realise that he was pulling the strings. Being his daughter would not protect her, it simply increased the likelihood of him using her. In the warped, perverted little games Peter played, Malia was no longer a pawn, she was the queen, and the piece Peter would use the most to defend himself.  
There were some selfish reasons too, he was ashamed to admit. Part of him hadn't wanted to tell her because he didn't want to lose her, he was scared that it would ruin the happiness she had bought to his fractured world, scared it would tarnish some of the happy times they had had together. He smiled for a second, remembering the day Malia had unwisely decided to bake cupcakes. Stiles had opened the door to the an assault of the senses; the consistent beeping of the smoke alarm, the hazy smoke which made his eyes water, and the charring smell of burned _something. _After raising a bemused eyebrow at a decidedly scared looking sheriff, he had hurried down into the kitchen to discover a dishevelled looking Malia, a pale streak of flour across her nose, desperately trying to waft the smoke out of the large windows with a flapping tea towel. He had burst into laughter, and even her growls of annoyance didn't stop him, until grinning inanely he had kissed her right there in the kitchen, not caring about the smoke or the smell, or that the sheriff was right outside the door. Afterwards he had helped her make a new batch, patiently explaining that bread flour and self-rising flour were very different, and that they needed only twenty minutes to cook, not an entire hour. Even he had to admit, by the 4th batch, they were pretty damn tasty. However, Malia was no longer trusted in the kitchen on her own after that, and even now he teased her about it, a sly half grin on his face, laughing at the small growls and furious looks she gave him.  
The smile slipped from his face, and his heart plunged once more. He rolled over to his bedside, desperately grasping for his phone, praying she had replied. Nothing. Sighing, he replied to Scott's concerned messages, then sent out his 17th hopeful text, *_Malia, please, just give me a chance to explain_*...


	2. Chapter 2

**Malia's POV**

Malia was woken by an angry buzzing and an overly chirpy bird tweeting on the bedside table beside her. She lay there for a few moments trying rubbing her eyes awake, mystified as to where the sound was coming from, before realising it was her phone, which lay charging on the table beside her narrow bed. The phone was brand new, but if she was being honest she hated the bloody thing, it was too difficult to control and was so complicated. Stiles had changed her ringtone without telling her she supposed; probably thinking it would remind her of the woods that she still missed terribly. He was always doing things like that, sweet little gestures that seemed almost second nature to him, leaving the comfiest pillows for when she would sneak in during the night, giving her the first shower of the morning when the water was at its hottest, always saving her the passenger seat after he had guessed that sitting in the back was still troubling for her. Once, on an especially chilly night, he had put hot water bottles on her side of the bed and she had slid into the comforting warmth with a happy sigh, which had made him chuckle softly.

_*Malia, please, just give me a chance_ _to explain*_  
the phone buzzed again, and ignoring the text she put it on silent, the chirping reminder of Stiles making her hate it even more. Burrowing back under the warm covers she tried desperately to find oblivion in sleep once more, but now she was conscious there was no escaping the awful reality of what had happened, and her stomach began to jolt and roll inside her. Rushing to the cold, dingy bathroom she heaved in the toilet, but nothing came up except bile and stomach acid. She sank to her knees on the grimy floor with her head in her hands and shut her eyes, contemplating what to do next. How could she even look him in the eyes? How could she stare at the man whom she had called father for the past 18 years knowing what she did now? It was already awkward enough, just the two of them rattling around, with nothing to say to each other. The guilt she carried from _that _incident over 8 years ago made her sick to her stomach, so they avoided talking about her mother and sister at all costs. And what else was there? She was no longer the little 9 year old who played with her dolls house and ran around playing wild Indians with her sister, that girl was long since dead, the wound already healing. He was no longer the laughing, caring father who had swung her round by her arms and read her stories before bed; he was a dark, bereaved stranger who she didn't know. And how did she even explain the 8 years she had lived in the wild? How could it even be possible that a nine year old girl had somehow survived 8 years in a wood, with no one ever seeing her? It was beyond crazy. Add Peter to the mix and it all became one giant, stomach churning, head throbbing mess. Peter. Her _father_. Peter-the-devil-in-a-v-neck-Hale, whom she had grown to hate, who had cold-heartedly used Lydia, bitten Scott, and oh yes, _murdered_ a hell of a lot of people. Knowing she was related to _that _made her desperately retch again. Oh God.

Her fingers were already turning to ice, so she slid them into the warming pockets of jacket she was wearing. Only then did she realise that she was still wearing it, _his_jacket, and for a moment she breathed Stiles familiar smell, allowed it to warm her insides and soothe her, as he always did. There was something rancid about it now though, it no longer calmed her the same way, instead bought on an uncontrollable anger that scorched and blistered her insides. Yesterday, after her eyes had blurred back into focus and she had discovered that vile A4 sheet on the floor behind her, she had felt barely anything, just strangely hollow and disgusted. Looking at him crouching before her, acting _so_ concerned, she had felt nothing, except an irrepressible urge to leave that hateful vault, full of lies and betrayal. It was almost funny how they had tricked her into opening the vault for them, yet another load of bullshit they had fed to her. God she hated them. She wanted to rip at them, tear the skin off their stupid, lying faces, and feel their flesh tear apart beneath her claws. Looking down she realised she was standing, breathing heavily, her fangs out, claws fully extended, Stiles' jacket held in her trembling talons. Growling with rage she ripped into it, tearing the fabric apart, the fibres gently drifting down into a fluffy pile on the tiled floor. It felt good, satisfying to release her fury this way. She looked around her and grabbed at the ceramic sink, tearing it off the wall, and crashing it into the cold hard floor, where it shattered into a thousand fragmented arrows. The same happened to the toilet in the corner, then the walls as she raked her razor sharp talons into the soft, crumbling plaster.  
Then, as quickly as it had come, the rage left her, and she stared around at the demolition site surrounding her. God only knows what her father would say. Reaching out a soft, human hand she grasped desperately at the hacked cloth of the jacket and let out a whimper. It all became too much, she could no longer hold back tears and clutching the cotton to her face she began to sob. What was left now? Not her Dad, not her pack, not even Stiles, who had _always_ been there. For the second time in her life she felt completely and utterly deserted - a lone wolf.


End file.
